


Growth

by Quinhwyvar



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2019-02-15 17:28:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quinhwyvar/pseuds/Quinhwyvar
Summary: This life, this strange one based in the world of death, it ain’t half bad ‘xcept for one little thing.





	Growth

“Hi ya.” Gin waves and smiles just a little bit bigger. “I’ll be ya Command’r General with Tosen, ‘kay?”

The Espada are not impressed. The Prima, Starrk, sighs and slumps more in his chair. The others’ attention drops away like stones by staring at various objects in the room. Silence ensues.

The shimigami’s hand falls back in his sleeve. This is not the welcome wagon he hopes for. Here he has no reputation so there ain’t shaking boots, hasty bows, or sidelong glances. Instead, the Arrancar are unresponsive.

Darn, he misses it.

 One of the more normal Espada is still watching. He looks at Gin like there is food on his face. The shinigami responds by returning the look. The Espada, the fourth one, doesn’t even blink.

It’s freaky. They’re hollows. Things that Gin has killed all his life and now they’re drinkin’ tea like they’re British.

Maybe some fun could be had anyways.

*

This life, this strange one based in the world of death, it ain’t half bad.

Except for one little thing.

One little thing that eats into Gin too much for him to ignore it. When he ain’t turning Espada against each other for a spat or watchin’ Aizen gain more and more power, it curls around him squeezing tighter and tighter.

Rangiku.

And September 29th.

She doesn’t know when her birthday actually is and he doesn’t care either. All he knows is that he has never missed a moment of September 29th with her for years. It’s their day. Gin teases her with it all year but annually he takes the risk showin’ real affection.

Now Aizen’s plan is in effect and he’s separate from her. A billion worlds apart.

Now she prolly hates him now too.

Gin pauses from draggin’ the cord down a hallway of Las Noches. This corner is never used. He’s hedging his bet on it. The cameras showed that not a single alive or more importantly dead thing has been in this area for ages.

It’s evening. Who’s gawking at Rangiku at dinner?

Not that he did anything about it when he lived in the Soul Society

It doesn’t matter to Gin.

Or that’s what he sayin’ to himself anyways.

He takes the cord to the electrical panel he’s prepped. The shinigami plugs it in. The lights sputters and he pops up his head to watch.

He’d have to wipe the cameras religiously but that’s okay.

At the mental count of sixty, the generator rolls over and produces enough. He didn’t ask why it works and Szayel didn’t ask why Gin wanted to know about such things like overloading the generator. Itsa fair trade.

Oh and also that Gin gave Szayel approval on that dissection nobody wanted to hear about.

That helps too.

 Gin follows the cord back dragging his fingers against the walls. He pads down the stairs, passing level after level of empty floors. Aizen overcompensated with his building plans. Gin was there when he calculated the necessary number of Arrancars needed dependin’ on the Hogyoku.

It succeeded his expectations.

Gin would admit it but Aizen would never say he’s wrong.

It violates his God status.

That equals lots of tasty corners that no one’s eyes ever sees and now Gin is using one.

The buzz starts being auditable a floor away and he could smell the dirt on the last flight. The glow only appears around the cracks of white curtain that he had swiped from Tosen.

Tosen didn’t need ‘em. All the blind man needs starts with a “J” and ends with an “E”.

The shinigami waits a moment. Nobody is near, not a peep. Good. It has to stay that way now.

Drawing back the curtain, he surveys his work. A four by four grid of pots filled with the best dirt he could steal basks under green lights. The nubs of the bulbs peer out from the top.

Gin kneels next to the nearest pot and brushes the lip of the pot.

“Come on tinsy thing. Ya gotta make me some daffodils by September 29th.”

Besides the purrin’ of the light, it is quiet. Now Gin knows this is a mistake. His little confession.

But that’s okay.

Nobody has to know about it.

**Author's Note:**

> Just one note before I continue. This story is me This story is me stylistically “playin’” with grammar and form to match Gin’s accent. If such a thing bothers you, this story may not be for you. 
> 
> Otherwise, please enjoy some flower growing and Gin tomfoolery!
> 
> Quinhwyvar


End file.
